


Skagskin

by grozba



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20318833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grozba/pseuds/grozba
Summary: Rhys is alone and stressed out in his empty house. He thinks about Fiona to pass the time.





	Skagskin

The last few vestiges of sunlight filter through the windows, turning the hardwood floors a golden honey color that rivals the desert stretching for miles in every direction. It's been a long day for Rhys (figuratively, of course; Pandoran days are always long, which is yet another root cause of its natives' characteristic insanity, he thinks), having spent ten hours in the Atlas facility after an early-morning weapons test out in the desert that nearly got his shoes soaked in rakk guts.

The drive from the facility to the house is long and winding by design, carefully circumventing each bandit camp and spiderant nest while taking enough weird twists and turns that anyone tailing him would either lose interest or get lost. It's all very exhausting, though Rhys follows the route religiously: he didn't plan it out, that was all Fiona and Sasha, but he'd rather be cautious than dead. It was their planet, after all, and they had a better idea of what would keep him alive.

The security touches on the house, though -- those are all Pure Rhys. One of the perks of unearthing a storehouse of an abandoned corporation is that countless blueprints, prototypes, and just leftover tech is completely at his disposal. He's got turrets dotting the dunes around the house, and security drones ready to be activated the moment someone strays even a millimeter too close. _Paranoid,_ Sasha had said, but Rhys figured she was just jealous.

Fiona, on the other hand, seemed to take it as a personal challenge to outsmart Rhys's security, though he suspected it was just because she wanted to show off her new Vault Hunter skills -- as if he wasn't already hyper-aware of how cool and badass she was or something. But Fiona is on the other side of the planet right now tracking down one lead or another, so he can relax in the knowledge that she's not about to burst through a skylight and rappel down the wall.

Sighing, he collapses into his armchair. "Maybe I'll just sleep here," he mumbles to himself, letting his head loll back and closing his eyes. It takes another few seconds before he manages to force his own legs to function, pushing his shoes off with his feet.

He stays like that for awhile, listening to the wind cut through the canyon under the soft whirring of the security making systematic sweeps for any unauthorized presence. His limbs feel heavy and he honestly feels too bodily tired to stay awake for very much longer. Now if only his brain would follow suit. Despite how exhausted he feels, the longer he spends here slouched in his living room chair, the more time he has for his thoughts to bounce around inside his head. Atlas's budget, the meeting with a Pangolin rep next week, that skag burrow he just noticed on his drive home, and a million other things are going to keep him up when all he wants to do is pass out.

It takes another surge of willpower to make himself move again, but he eventually manages to bring his natural hand to his stomach. Waiting for the warmth of his palm to seep through his vest, he tries to force his thoughts away from work and instead towards Fiona: the shape of her mouth and the curve of her hip and the way her breath always tickles the side of his neck when they're tangled up in bed together. He's often disgusted by how much he loves her -- by how quickly he can calm down just being in her presence -- but he just doesn't have the energy for shame right now; he's too distracted by the warmth pooling low in his abdomen, a warmth that's happily pushing a lot of unwanted thoughts out of his head.

Lifting his hips up, he unbuttons his trousers to take hold of his cock, running his fingers along the shaft and trying to pretend it's Fiona touching him instead. Her small, nimble hands were perfect for picking pockets, and, as it so happens, perfect for getting him off. He assumes that's just because of the attraction they feel for one another and not because she's especially experienced, mostly because considering the latter makes him feel weird and jealous and sick... which isn't very conducive to what he's trying to do right now.

_This isn't working._ Rhys squeezes his eyes shut and tries to clear his mind again.

Fiona's mouth, Fiona's hips, Fiona's breath, Fiona's fingers -- right. Back in it. He breathes out hard and starts again, moving his hand slowly along his shaft while flashes of Fiona appear behind his eyelids. She's beautiful, and not just in a psychotic Pandoran way, but _really_ beautiful, and there are a lot of times he just can't believe that she wants to be with him. He feels lucky and unworthy, which are very foreign feelings for him; he snatched ownership of Atlas by pure coincidence, but he's always felt like he deserved that. He'd wanted to run a company since he was a kid, and that has to count for something. But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he'd fall for a Pandoran, let alone a con artist, and if someone had told him a year ago that it was going to happen, he'd have laughed. Because he _really_ didn't deserve that.

But _Fiona,_ god, she's something else entirely. She's smart and funny and she's a complete asshole, which gets Rhys going like nothing else, if he's being totally honest. The biting things that come out of her mouth are even better than the other things she can do with it; he shivers at the memory of her meanly telling him he couldn't ever hope to get her off the last time they were together. It made him work even harder until she was bucking her hips against his hand and whining through her nose, her fingers digging hard into his shoulder. There's really nothing like making her eat her own words, and she eggs him on so frequently that he would be a moron not to guess that she likes it, too.

Heat rises quickly to Rhys's face when he becomes aware of his own breathing, rough and forceful, and he curls his cybernetic fingers into the arm of his chair. It's instinctive -- he can't feel it -- but the sound of the skagskin creaking under his hand is another sensation that brings him back to a recent memory of Fiona; her mouth was gentle and warm on his forehead while she knelt over his lap in the same chair he's in now, her hips rolling torturously slow.

_Tell me you love me,_ she said, and Rhys blurted it out immediately, always eager to do whatever she asked, and always halfway ready to tell her his feelings anyway.

His hand is flying up and down his cock, feelings and memories of Fiona flooding his senses until he swears he can even smell her, the sweat and the sand and the washed-out scent of the richly perfumed shampoo she steals from him. It's a habit he pretends to hate, although he's so possessive of her that he can't help but fall in love all over again every time he catches her smelling like him.

"God," he mutters to himself, half whispering, and his body starts to tense up, metal fingers gripping harder on the leather. Fiona's mouth, Fiona's hips, Fiona riding him in the living room, and Fiona gasping, back curving while he moved his fingers inside her.

Fiona saying, "Ha ha, sad," and Rhys choking on his own spit, eyes popping open.

"Fu-- Fiona?" he stammers, scrambling to cover himself. His brain is fogged, but not so badly that he doesn't recognize Fiona standing there, in real life, her hands on her hips and an amused look on her face.

"Did you get lonely? Poor baby," she says, wrinkling her nose, and suddenly she's right next to him. He's still so turned on that he doesn't really know what's happening, and it's all he can do to just sit there while she leans down to kiss his forehead, her mouth gentle and warm. Rhys's face heats up again for an entirely different reason. _This isn't working either._

"I, I," he says uselessly, then starts laughing because that's what he does when he doesn't know what to say. "When did you..."

"Ah -- hold that thought; I'm going to shower," says Fiona, moving away again. "I feel gross as _hell._"

Rhys doesn't answer because he still doesn't know what to say, instead dragging his hands down his face. Leave it to Fiona to waltz in and then move on like nothing happened, leaving him blue balled and too embarrassed to fix the situation. He hates her.

But he loves her too, so he swallows his shame and gets up to follow her.


End file.
